Undead chronicle
by 7th fire
Summary: The written tale of 'one of' the chosen undead, his adventures, and realizations from his time in search of answers. Rated m for future violence and over all dark themes.
As much as I've played the series I can't help but notice I've written nothing on it. So here's my first go at dark souls.

I disclaim any enfranchised material blah blah blah I don't own yadda you get it.

A written account from one of the 'many' chosen undead as he starts to unravel exactly what it means to exist in this convoluted tale. And his stunning realizations upon the ever elusive call of the bonfire. Written from darksouls two perspective.

Undead chronicle.

Chronicle one. The things betwixt.

I arrived at this place. From whence I came or why I am uncertain, but I distinctly remember an old woman. Garbed in the Crimson of blood. The old hag smelled of ash, and an impending doom lingered on her words, though I can't recall what she told me. I remember, fireflies. Perhaps but a dream. The fall into an ever darkening abyss. It matters not I am stranded in this place it seems. Alone, unsure who or what dwells in this strange place. With a feeling of despair so palpable I can taste it. This place is filled with death. One can feel it flowing from the wind, hear it howling through the strangely large trees. And it is undoubtably everywhere. With trepidation I lift myself to find this darkened void of a place. The eyes of strange beasts scattering as I pull myself up from the cold stone I find myself placed upon. And forward I venture.

It's oddly beautiful as it is ominous, this cursed place. Tall adamant walls dropping into the darkness far deeper than mine eyes can see. Strange vegetation growing to incredible heights, and the quiet sound of flowing water permeates the eerie silence. There are no birds in this place. If there are they are silent. The strange animals elude me as well. They are easily frightened it seems. In the distance ahead I notice the house, something familiar to it. A quiet calling of sorts pulls at me and with a hesitance I wasn't sure I understood fully I approach.

From the threshold I could identify the same familiar red garb I now couldn't place. Three of them now. The smell of ash hanging like a poultice on the air. Undead they call me. Is that what I am? Noticing the necrotic green flesh of my hands I cannot bring myself to argue. Then one of them hands me a strange article. This tiny twisted piece of what appears to be shaped wood. It's small, like a child's toy or a bobble meant to sit upon ones mantel. It's peculiarity is only outweighed by my compulsion to gaze upon it. And when my eyes finally focus upon the tiny visage I remember.

I was human once. A knight from some land, though where is a vague recollection. I recall a woman, and a small child. Though I've no knowledge of such i assume possibly my family. I remember the curse of the undead now. The legends say no one escapes it, and we are inexorably bound to seek souls. It is then I finally realize the true weight of my situation. I cannot die, no. A fate far worse awaits me. The hollowing. To become the mindless husk of the man I once was. That stated my current lack of memory is but testament to that fate. With no knowledge of who I was prior, and knowing of what I was to become, I resolved that if I could not die, I would seek a remedy for this curse, and if the hollowing came to pass, then I would have failed and it would matter not who i was.

Restored was I now. My flesh now returned to its former state. And I recalled the sword at my side. A simple blade, sturdy,and stained from battles prior. The bright red regalia I bore indicative of the country I left behind also adorned the same emblems and trappings as the hilt of said blade. Though possibly a hopeless thought I might return there, at least a mild hope for the future. But before all of that I would need to alleviate this hex.

My farewells ,if you'd call it such, made I set out to discover my fate first hand. Would I succeed, fail, go hollow, one could only hope for the best. In my thoughts I didn't happen to notice my attention being drawn to a strangely designed sword stuck within the ground. Around which laid bones of possibly dead adventurers piled almost ceremonially around it. My hand reached for its haft but what happened only shocked me. A fire. Soft luminescent flames erupted from those old bones, and for the longest time I stared. The flames almost seemed loving, as if calling to me. Beckoning me to rest and like a siren lulling me into gentle peace. It was safe here. Something told me that but what primordial instinct it was confounded me. This is where my journey began. Not from my arrival at this accursed land. Not from my country who's name was lost to the hollowing. But here at the bonfire.


End file.
